He's surprised she touches him at all when he's in a state like this, and he turns his head away from her sluggishly, like that might be enough to avoid sullying her. He puts a hand out, groping to hold her off or... steady himself, it turns out, finding only the floor to keep himself from sagging over sideways.
"If I'm not, then I don't want you to see me like this," he says, trying to find his feet to get up, but he somehow only ends up slouched a little worse against the wall.
"You're silly. This is when you need me most," she murmurs patiently, and gets up onto to grab a washcloth from beside the sink and wet it before returning to his side. She reaches for his face, to wipe him down.
"I'd like to know what you'd expect me to do while the man I love is ill and on the floor. Go downstairs and watch a movie? Visit a friend?"
Just like that, her heart breaks for him. It's been some time since he's looked so miserable. He must feel worse.
"I'm here to take care of you. This won't be forever," she reminds him, wiping his neck. "You needn't worry about a thing. I'm very sorry you feel so awful, my love."
He sighs at her touch, wishing he could be touched like that forever.
“I just don’t want to be like some sick dog that has to slink away to die,” he mutters, looking at her dead in the eyes. Why the fuck is he crying? “To spare you, if it grows worse.”
“If I could be so fortunate,” he says forlornly, sure that he’s leaving a river of sweat where his shoulders touch the wall. If there’s anything to be glad about beyond her presence, it’s that there’s nothing more to vomit. “I need you or I’ll surely perish.”
She wipes his hands, and when she reaches up to brush her fingers across his forehead, they're too cool for it to be anything but a touch of her magic bringing down the temperature.
"I'm happy to be here to take care of you, for all the times you've looked after me. For all the times you've had no one to look after you," she murmurs. Joshua was always the sick one, the weak one. There was no room for Clive.
He reeks, but she pets him, hoping to cool him down.
"As much as I'm sure you'd wish I'd do that to you now, I need you just as much as you need me," she tells him. "Once you feel strong enough, we'll get you back into bed."
"Don't push yourself. We can sit here for a little while." There's no shame in it, despite the smell. She's glad he made it here rather than vomit in their bedroom.
And they can't have that. Jill rests her hand atop his.
"Very well. I'll help you up."
She gets to her feet and offers him both hands. Usually, such an act is done in jest. A playful thing he humors her with, because he weighs that much more than her. But surely she can help a little.
Clive sits forward with some effort, getting his feet under him so he can try to stand. He’s surely not going to be lifted right from the ground, not by her.
He sure does need more help than he hopes, though, because when he gets up, his weight immediately sinks against her.
“Alright,” he breathes, through his mouth, since there isn’t a single gasp of air getting through his nose. He barely keeps upright, his sweaty side against hers, and the second they’re in reach of the bed, he sinks into it.
(His armpit drags against her shoulder obviously.)
Her own clothing feels damp. She's slogged through worse than her love's sick sweat, but it's still not great.
"Here," she says, going to the bag and pulling out a bottle with red liquid in it, condensation on it from the cooler in the store. She twists off the cap. "Drink this. It's sweet."
“What is it?” he asks, struggling to prop himself up against the headboard again. But he’s going to drink it anyway, and he takes an immediate swig of it.
"A different color of that drink Joshua had," Jill says. She got a few other bottles in different colors. The yellow one is alarming, but she was curious. "I have medicine, too."
The bag rattles as she pulls out a bottle of capsules, turning it over in her hands to read it.
"You claim you are dying, and yet you don't need medicine," Jill hums, opening the bottle. She fiddles with the foil seal before popping it open, pulling out the cotton within, and tapping out a few pills onto her palm. "Just take these, Clive. Please."
He is dying and thus he does not want to spend the last bit of his life choking down whatever chemicals and foul-smelling concoctions they’ve hidden in those pills. Clive just gives them a suspicious eye.
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"If I'm not, then I don't want you to see me like this," he says, trying to find his feet to get up, but he somehow only ends up slouched a little worse against the wall.
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"I'd like to know what you'd expect me to do while the man I love is ill and on the floor. Go downstairs and watch a movie? Visit a friend?"
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“You could,” he says. “I wouldn’t hold it against you.”
He’s tearing up.
“I don’t want to be weak like this.”
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"I'm here to take care of you. This won't be forever," she reminds him, wiping his neck. "You needn't worry about a thing. I'm very sorry you feel so awful, my love."
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“I just don’t want to be like some sick dog that has to slink away to die,” he mutters, looking at her dead in the eyes. Why the fuck is he crying? “To spare you, if it grows worse.”
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Every time she does, he gets worse.
"This... that," she says, glancing to the toilet, "Was likely the worst of it."
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"Oh, that's nothing new," she teases lightly.
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“I’m glad to have made it 34 years without falling ill before you…
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"I'm happy to be here to take care of you, for all the times you've looked after me. For all the times you've had no one to look after you," she murmurs. Joshua was always the sick one, the weak one. There was no room for Clive.
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"As much as I'm sure you'd wish I'd do that to you now, I need you just as much as you need me," she tells him. "Once you feel strong enough, we'll get you back into bed."
With a bucket, perhaps.
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“I can try to get up,” he says. “For you.”
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"Very well. I'll help you up."
She gets to her feet and offers him both hands. Usually, such an act is done in jest. A playful thing he humors her with, because he weighs that much more than her. But surely she can help a little.
"Slow and steady, Clive."
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He sure does need more help than he hopes, though, because when he gets up, his weight immediately sinks against her.
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He's against her, heavy and moist. Jill doesn't enjoy it, but this is what being a good partner is, she supposes.
"To bed we go."
Baby steps.
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(His armpit drags against her shoulder obviously.)
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"Here," she says, going to the bag and pulling out a bottle with red liquid in it, condensation on it from the cooler in the store. She twists off the cap. "Drink this. It's sweet."
Fruit punch, or whatever.
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The bag rattles as she pulls out a bottle of capsules, turning it over in her hands to read it.
"For fever, headache, congestion, sore throat..."
Sounds like him.
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“I don’t need medicine,” he coughs.
It’s guaranteed to taste even worse.
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She prays he can keep them down.
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“What’s in them? Would Tarja trust them?”
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